As the day finally broke and the red disk of the sun rose over the clouds fringing the horizon, the submarine reached her daylight patrol position, went awash, and lay quietly just below the surface, only her conning tower showing.
CHAPTER VIII
The whir of the ventilating blowers filled the boat. Leaning a little stiffly against the long Kingston valve levers in front of him, Mullaney shook his head occasionally as if to get rid of the steady drone which was gradually getting on his nerves. He fingered the release latch on the solitary lever which was still pointed outboard, a lever standing out prominently from the neat row of six similar levers rising from the deck at his feet, all slanting inboard and protruding into the little passage coming forward from the galley.
He looked curiously at the seventh lever, revolved his instructions over and over again.
“Whin I pulls that handle, down we go,” he thought. Looking forward, he could see a glint of daylight coming down the open conning tower hatch. He shivered slightly, leaned forward to cover the lever against anyone in the passage accidentally releasing it. Cautiously he pulled back on the lever without freeing the latch. It failed to move. He breathed a little more easily. For when that lever came back to line up with the others, a stream of water would rush into the safety tank, their last remaining bit of buoyancy would disappear and their awash conning tower would submerge.
“Orders or no orders,” muttered Pete to himself, “she stays where she is till I sees that conning tower hatch closed first.”
With diesel engines stopped and disconnected, electric motors clutched in on the propellers, the L-20 lay dead just beneath the surface, all main ballast tanks flooded, and only the slight buoyancy of the empty safety tank left to keep the conning tower awash so that they could draw air from the surface. The boat rose and fell sluggishly as the seas rolled by; a spot on the control room deck grew wetter and wetter as spray blew down the open hatch, and finally a little stream of water ran steadily away to the deck drain.
At their diving stations, the rest of the crew stood waiting. Just behind him, Pete was conscious of a seaman ready to screw closed the main air inlet valve overhead, through which (in addition to the open hatch) their blowers were sucking air.
Just forward, Mullaney watched the two men at the diving rudder controls. In front of them were two large bronze wheels, one for the bow diving planes, the other for the diving rudders abaft the propellers. In between them, in a slightly curved horizontal glass tube filled with red liquid, a bubble oscillated slowly in the trim indicator as the ship pitched.
To starboard, a switchboard covered the entire side of the room. From huge circuit breakers and switches for the heavy current to the main motors, down to the tiny terminals for the gyro compass panel, electrical instruments in all sizes and in bewildering array glistened on the board for the circuits of every size to the myriad motors which made the operation of the boat possible — main propelling motors, torpedo air compressors, ventilating fans, bilge pumps, steering motors, lights, gyro compass, periscope controls — countless others with which the boat was jammed. Mullaney’s eyes travelled un-comprehendingly over the intricate switchboard, paused a moment at the figure of the electrician in front of the main motor controls, wandered along the mass of electric cables which came from behind the board and in armoured sleeves ran to the after bulkhead where they disappeared into the engine room through water-tight stuffing boxes spaced close to the inner shell.
Immediately behind him, across the passage, came the low hum of the gyro compass, whirling at high speed inside its vacuum case, and the click of the contacts on the metal compass card under the glass dome as the gyroscope “hunted” back and forth a fraction of a degree, holding the card pointing north. Just in front of the compass, like slender columns, the periscope tubes rose from the housing wells in the deck below and disappeared overhead into the base of the conning tower.
Mullaney hovered uneasily before his levers. There was too much machinery in the boat for his peace of mind. Unimaginative as he was, the maze of pipes, valves, wheels, switches, wires, motors, engines, tanks, worried him. If something failed in all that mass of machinery when they submerged, even his untrained mind could visualize the consequences. And as he gazed round at the older members of the crew, jammed here and there in the little control room before their valves, manifolds, and switches, it was obvious what service in submarines had done to most of them — silent men, pallid faces everywhere. Mullaney wondered for the thousandth time why he had ever allowed himself to be inveigled into the submarine service. And then that captain on top of everything else!
The day dragged slowly on. In the chariot bridge two lookouts, armed with glasses, scoured the seas for surface ships, swept the skies to make sure no Zeppelins or hurtling airplanes on scouting patrol discovered them. In the little radio room abaft the switchboard, the operator listened on the microphones for sounds of enemy submarines running submerged.
And thus in three dimensions the L-20 patrolled off Helgoland — watching the sky, the surface, and the depths — a jumpy crew ready at the first alarm to vanish themselves.
The sun wheeled in a vast circle over the southern sky, disappeared below the horizon. Darkness fell. With the coming of night, Lieutenant Rolfe blew his main ballast tanks and the L-20 burst dripping through the surface. Riding on her vents, she steamed slowly in toward Helgoland.
Part of the tenseness vanished; the crew poured up through the conning tower for a breath of air, a smoke, and a chance to stretch their legs on deck.
Soon the dark mass of Helgoland loomed up again, the engines were stopped, and the submarine took up her night station. One by one, the chill drove the crew below, till shortly only the bridge watch were left.
At daybreak they started to move out again. But this time, as the mists dispersed, they saw clouds of smoke covering the southern horizon. The screech of a klaxon horn cut viciously through the noise inside the boat, then died away as the crew sprang to their diving controls.
“Silence in the boat!”
The conning tower hatch was slammed to, trained hands moved swiftly over the manifolds, closing this valve, opening that.
Lieutenant Rolfe pulled a switch overhead, Knowles at the steering wheel in front of him did the same. A grinding noise as the wire cables wound up, and two periscopes rose slowly from the wells in the deck till their eye pieces came head high. The grinding stopped, both men quickly rigged out the training levers on the periscopes, adjusted the lenses.
A series of brief reports rattled crisply from all over the control room.
“Diesel engines disconnected, sir!”
“Muffler stop valves closed, sir.”
“Main motors ready, sir.”
“Outboard ventilation valves secured, sir!”
Rolfe watched the needle on the large depth gauge over the diving wheels, as the boat settled rapidly in the water. A sharp whistling sound filled the submarine as the air in the ballast tanks roared out the vents. In the after corner of the control room, Mullaney, every one of his Kingston levers pulled inboard now, watched fascinated as the depth gauge needle registered their sinking. Fifteen feet. The deck was awash.
“One-third ahead, both motors!” ordered Rolfe.
At the switchboard, the chief electrician rotated his controllers slightly. A dull hum from aft, the boat started slowly ahead.
“Five degrees down, both planes!”
The diving wheels whirled, the bow of the boat dipped and, as Mullaney watched, the depth gauge needle quickly dropped to “30” and the boat planed under. Two small streams of water shot out near the forward manifold, splashed on deck.
“Forward ballast tanks flooded, sir!”
“After ballast tanks flooded, sir!”
Seamen hastily shut off the telltale flood cocks.
“Close all main ballast vents!”
More valve wheels were spun overhead, the vents reported closed, and the L-20 drove forward submerged.
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“Hold her at forty feet,” ordered the skipper. The two diving wheels were gradually eased off till the boat rode evenly with the depth gauge registering “40” and the trim indicator showing level.
Looking through his periscope, Tom made out far ahead a mass of smoke clouds on the horizon, coming up to the eastward of the island. Nothing but smoke, but judging by its extent a considerable number of ships were coming out.
Rolfe watched a moment.
“They’ll head north till they’ve cleared Helgoland. Hard left.”
Knowles swung his wheel hard over, headed east to intercept the squadron. The L-20 heeled badly, as she came about, so much so that Tom nearly lost his feet and in alarm hurriedly eased the helm to straighten up the boat lest she capsize.
Rolfe cautioned him.
“Take it easy, quartermaster. These L boats have damn little stability when they’re submerged. I don’t think you can capsize her, but it doesn’t take much to give her a bad heel, and you might spill the acid out of the storage batteries.”
Knowles, a little pale, nodded and brought the boat around more slowly, keeping the heel down to about 50, till they had straightened out on the new course. The C-3, though much smaller, had been far more stable than that.
At nine knots, they drove along submerged, while the smoke drew closer and resolved itself first into groups of stacks and masts protruding over the rim of the sea, and then into a line of grey hulls.
A thrill surged through Tom as he pressed his eye to the periscope. There were at least four large ships steaming slowly in column, while ahead of them and on both sides he could make out a number of smaller vessels — destroyers and minesweepers probably.
He felt the suppressed excitement in Rolfe’s voice as the skipper called out:
“The enemy battle-cruiser squadron!” then cut in the highest magnification on his periscope lenses to examine them more closely.
Hastily Rolfe took periscope bearings at five minute intervals, plotted them against his own course and speed, and estimated the enemy course. He shook his head, muttered:
“Question if we ever get close enough.”
Turning to the chief electrician, he said:
“Full speed, Randolph.”
The electrician shoved both controllers down to the last notch.
“That’s all the juice we got, captain.”
“How’re the batteries?” asked Rolfe anxiously.
“They were up on voltage this morning.” He glanced at his ammeter. “They’ll last about one hour at this discharge rate.”
Tom glanced at the compass repeater over the wheel, looked at the captain.
“We’re steady on 90°. That O.K.?”
Rolfe worked over his chart, pricked the apparent intersection of his course with the enemy’s, stepped off the speeds along each line. He shook his head.
“If they’re making over fifteen knots we won’t get close enough on this course to fire. We’d better ease off to the north more. Make it 80°.”
Tom swung the wheel to port, watched the lubber’s mark as the degrees on the card drifted slowly by and the ship heeled gently in the turn. He met her at 82, then steadied on the new course.
“Steady on 80°, sir.”
Again Tom looked out. In a wide circle cut from sea and sky, he saw the waves close at hand seemingly about to slap his eye as they washed round the outer periscope lens.
Far away, as if seen through a telescope, were the enemy battle cruisers — Derfflinger, Von der Tann, Moltke, Seydlitz. Astern of them now, with a rapidly widening gap between, the minesweepers were visible. Their part was over, they had swept a safe channel to the sea for the large ships, and now in open water had turned aside to allow the faster vessels to take advantage of the safety from attack that lay in higher speed than the lumbering trawlers could make with their burdensome sweep wires.
The thickening clouds of smoke over the cruiser squadron indicated that they were speeding up. And with them, a little less clearly visible from his low periscope position which still showed only the superstructures of the cruisers, Tom made out six destroyers, three on each bow of the leading ship.
He removed his eye from the periscope, rubbed it a little to relieve the strain of the high-powered lenses, made sure the boat was still heading 80°, then turned and looked out again.
Battle cruisers! The enemy’s most powerful ships, a tempting target for any submarine!
But those six destroyers! Tom knew what depth charges meant. If they made themselves known by closing in to attack, there was slight chance of escape in broad daylight with two flotillas of destroyers hunting them. Would Rolfe attack? The sensible thing would be to keep out of range, trail astern, get the course the squadron finally took, then, when they were out of sight, rise and wireless in the news of the impending raid. That was their main job. And with luck, the British battle cruisers rushing down from Rosyth might bring them to action on their way back from — well, where from this time, Lowestoft, Scarborough, Yarmouth? Perhaps sink one or two — if they could catch them. But before that? Tom had a vision of heavy shells raining down on defenceless coast towns, bursting in the little seashore cottages — mangled women, torn children, wrecked villages.
“What do you make it out, quartermaster?”
Knowles turned, looked at the skipper, who was still squinting through the number two periscope.
“Four battle cruisers, Derfflinger leading; six destroyers for convoy, sir.”
Rolfe nodded without taking his eye away. Knowles looked round the room. His silent shipmates, gazing tensely at their controls, glanced occasionally at their captain. To them action meant the closing of valves, the throwing of switches in a little room packed with machinery, no sight of the enemy, no sight of the sea, nothing but reading a pressure gauge, watching the swinging of a wattmeter needle. But it was still their portion to share the danger sight unseen, into which at the captain’s orders, they drove the fragile shell that housed them all, and they distrusted the captain.
Would Rolfe attack? At his mention of destroyers, Knowles felt the men in the compartment stiffen up as if from an electric shock, whisper rapidly to each other. They knew what that meant. But in another second, they bent again over their controls, holding the depth, watching the trim; and only the hum of the motors, the whir of the blowers, the vibration of the periscope tubes, as they ripped through the waves above, broke the silence.
Rolfe looked again at the distant battle cruisers, then shook his head dubiously. “We won’t get close enough for a decent shot,” he whispered to Knowles. “About all we’d do by firing would be to give ourselves away. What do you think about it, chief?”
“I’d attack, captain.”
Rolfe shook his head.
“It’s part of our orders to report all raiding squadrons. I’ll be carrying ’em out if we just trail and wireless in which course they take. The British cruisers’ll catch ’em then.”
“Yes, but they might not. And even if they do, it’ll be after the raid’s over. I’d fire at a target like that even at the maximum range.” Tom turned and looked significantly at his skipper.
Rolfe gazed in surprise. What did that look in his quartermaster’s face mean? The man was queer, half insubordinate. Could he be threatening his skipper with the “Articles for the Government of the Navy” which were dinned into the crew’s ears every Saturday at quarters, that article: “The penalty of death or such other punishment as a court-martial may decide, shall be inflicted on any commanding officer who does not do his utmost to overtake and destroy any vessel which it is his duty to encounter?”
Was that it? Rolfe glared at his quartermaster.
Knowles looked coolly back, and repeated:
“I’d attack if I were you, sir.”
Rolfe’s jaw dropped abruptly. He looked angrily at Tom, then turned without a word to his periscope.
Rolfe pressed a button, the tinkle of a bell drifted aft from the torpedo room. He pressed hi
s lips to the voice tube.
“Torpedo room! Load all four tubes, set torpedoes to run at twenty foot depth, maximum speed at 2,000 yards.” He closed the voice tube, turned again to his periscope.
He had settled Rolfe’s indecision, they were going to attack!
Tom peered out. The cruisers were perhaps three miles off on the starboard bow, making about twenty knots. Their hulls were visible now as they swept forward; he could make out the Derringer’s turrets, with the muzzles of her big guns outlined sharply against the sky beyond; her sides bristled with gunports through which protruded the torpedo defence battery; a little in the foreground, three destroyers steamed en echelon on the Derringer's port bow.
Two miles away now, and rapidly hauling toward their bow. Every moment the squadron became clearer, details of their hulls began to stand out.
“It’ll have to be a long shot,” muttered Rolfe, “and these damned torpedoes are uncertain enough when we’re close aboard.”
“We’ll just get within the 2,000 yards you’re setting the torpedoes for,” added Tom, estimating roughly the range when the enemy should cross their bow. “If these tubs could only make decent speed submerged, it’d be a cinch. Nine knots! We might as well be anchored!”
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